


It Seemed Like A Bad Idea

by tanukiham



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver's running out of options, but there's no way he's letting his baby sister work in a brothel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/gifts).



> Sorry, I'm just bad at PWP. It always grows a plot!

When they get to Denerim they find a room in the back of a lodging-house and it costs so much that Carver thinks it’s only a matter of time before they starve or end up on the streets, or end up on the streets _starving_ , but there’s nothing he can do about it. There aren’t any jobs, and they’re not the only refugees, in fact they’re fucking lucky to have a room just for the two of them. Lucky to be alive, really. How they made it to Denerim at all is beyond him, but he won’t look into that horse’s mouth because first, they are alive, and second, they are _together_ , and that’s more important than anything.

They’ve only been in Denerim a month when Bethany tells him she’s thinking about taking a job at the Pearl.

“ _No_.”

She folds her arms, a sure sign that this isn’t going to be over any time soon. “Carver, it’s just _cleaning_.”

“Oh, yeah.” He folds his arms right back at her, for all it’s worth. “Cleaning at the Pearl, eh? How long before they try and get you to lift your skirts? How much _money_ are they gunna offer you to, to _do_ things? How much would it _take_?”

She sniffs. “I don’t know. What’s the going rate?”

“Bethy!”

“No, I’m _serious_! How much _is_ it? Because if I’m going to end up a whore I’d like to know if it’s bloody worth it!”

He can’t help the exasperated noise that comes out of his throat. “I’ll not have my baby sister working in a sodding whorehouse.”

She sets her jaw, stubborn as a mule. “One, you’re only older than me by an afternoon. Two, you can’t actually stop me.”

“Bethy, I _can’t_ … you don’t know how,” but he stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again, this time cupping a hand under each of her elbows and ducking his head to look her right in the eye. “I don’t want you to do it. It’d kill me. I’d _die_.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” she says firmly, but she leans her weight forward until her forearms rest against his chest. It’s a sort of concession, sort of peace. “We need the money, Carver. I can’t get work anywhere else, and I can’t just sit here waiting for you to find something. We’re running out of coin. This is what people do when they run out of coin.”

“Give me two days,” he says, trying to sound confident and not desperate. “Two days before you do anything stupid, all right?”

“As though _you’ve_ ever gone two days without doing something stupid,” she scoffs, but she smiles and lets him hug her, and then she hugs him back. “All right, all right. You big bully.”

Two days later-- “You got a job where?”

“At the Pearl,” he tells her. She makes a high-pitched sound of outrage and then he has to dodge the punch she aims at his shoulder. “In the stables, Maker’s _breath_ , woman!”

“You _hypocrite_! Why is that all right? Tell me now, Carver Hawke, why it’s all right for you to work in a brothel and not for _me_?”

“Because you’re _pretty_ , twit-face!”

“ _Twit_ -face?!” She launches herself at him, all pointy fingers and elbows and then her hands come over with little stinging pin-pricks and they _hurt_ , and he knows she’s using magic.

“Yes, you pretty twit-faced twat! Stop that!” He grabs her wrists but she just does _something_ that leaves his fingers weak and useless and she slips out of his grip to dig those awful prickles into his ribs.

“I can’t believe you, you _traitor_!”

“I’m not! Listen!” He tries to bat her hands away, backing up against the rickety table in their tiny sodding room. “Listen, will you, you bleeding harpy!”

“And now I’m a harpy?” His shirt crackles, suddenly stiff with ice and it is sodding _freezing_. He yelps and squirms away, hands up like a white flag.

“Mercy, all right? Mercy, you … for fuck’s sake, Beth!”

She stops, but she crooks her fingers and little puffs of snowy dust scatter from her fingertips. “Make it good, big brother. Or I’ll ice your pants every morning for a week.”

He tries. “I looked, and I couldn’t find anything else, and it’s just the stables, and I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, acutely aware of the snowmelt dripping over his ribs. “And you’re right. And … I figured this way you wouldn’t have to work there. The money’s nothing much, but it’s honest … sort of. I figured I could buy us some time.”

“That was _my_ plan.”

“Yeah, but _your_ plan ended up with you bending over for some drunk fucking sailor, and I just _can’t_ , Bethy. I can’t let that happen to you.”

She lowers her hands, frowning at him. “And how does _your_ plan end any differently? Hm? Did you even think of that?”

He swallows, and nods. “Yeah. But it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Carver, if you’re trying to be _chivalrous_ , I’d thank you to shove it up your--”

“I’m _not_. It’s just ... I have to protect you, you’re all I have left.” He shrugs awkwardly, never comfortable saying this. “I promised Mother.”

She lets out her breath in a long, slow sigh. “Oh, that’s cheap.” But she lowers her hands and doesn’t argue, just looks hurt and _worn_. He wraps an arm around her waist because he needs to and she lets him even though he’s wet now, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Bethany sighs, smooths a hand over the soggy front of his shirt. “Me neither. I’ve been thinking of writing to mother’s family in Kirkwall. Mother always said, well. They might not be happy to see us, but they’re _family_. That ought to count, right?”

“Might do.” At least she’s not talking about the Pearl anymore. “Worth a shot.”

“All right.” She straightens, pulls away, and fixes him with a glare. “Don’t think this means you get to make all the decisions, Carver. I’m not your bloody wife.”

“Thank the _Maker_ ,” he groans. “Imagine being married to that!”

She kicks him in the ankle. “You said I was pretty.”

“Ow! Yeah, to _other_ people.”

But it’s okay. It’s going to be fine.

The uniform is _not_ fine. He doesn’t mind the sleeves thing, honestly, he doesn’t need sleeves, it’s not that cold. But the jerkin they give him is little more than a button-up vest, and the neckline shows off far too much of his chest-hair and he’s … funny about that. He hasn’t had hair there all that long, and it just looks _silly_ , he thinks. Really, though, his problem is with the trousers. “Why do they have to be so tight?” he whines, and this makes Katti laugh.

She slaps him on the rump, which is _demeaning_ , he’s pretty sure, and his yelp doesn’t seem to do anything except make her more amused. “Because everyone wants to look at this,” she tells him, eyes sparkling. “At least they fit. Be glad of that; we had to split Rinian’s down the seams and lace them up. And Sanga won’t let him wear anything under. For the look of the thing, you see.”

“I _don’t_ see.” Maker, that slap stung. He rubs his rear surreptitiously, but not surreptitiously enough, it seems, from the look on her face. “I’m a sodding stablehand, not a, a,” only he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Not a professional?” Katti leans back on her heels, hands square on her narrow hips as she grins at him. “No, not quite. But you are supposed to be decoration. And everything at the Pearl should make people think about fucking. Get used to it.”

Despite all that, he does like Katti. She’s funny and kind, and she helps him out as best she can. She’s the first elf he’s ever really talked to, and he realises very quickly that she’s smarter than he is, which goes a long way toward dispelling the myriad of things he’d always thought about elves and now feels pretty stupid about.

It’s Katti who introduces him to the stable crew, makes sure Noel looks after him, and tells Rinian off for pranking him so badly the first week. And it’s Katti who fixes his hair, and lets down his trouser-cuffs, and teases him about the whiteness of his calves.

She’s pretty too, not as pretty as Bethany (who could _ever_ be?) but pretty enough all the same. It’s the limp, he supposes, that keeps her off the floor and out of the beds of their guests.

That turns out not to be at all true. “Some people like it,” she tells him, smoking mirthweed in a pipe as they lounge about in the stables after closing. “Some people think it’s different. They’re mostly arseholes, though.”

He likes the way she talks, not all prim like he thought she’d be from how neatly she dresses and how gracefully she holds her hands.

She hands him the pipe; he takes a pull of it and ends up coughing, which only makes her snigger.

“So, you don’t have to … do things?” he asks, once he’s got his breath back.

She eyes him sidelong for a moment, then draws very deeply from her pipe. “I don’t have to,” she says, through a half-held breath. “I _do_ , though. Sometimes. Everybody does. The money’s good.” She breathes out through her nose, eyes closed. “Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to Sanga won’t make you. But … it’s better if you do, sometimes. No-one will think any less, farm-boy, it’s a _brothel_.”

“How good _is_ the money?” he asks, curious.

She tells him and it’s … less than he’d have thought but a lot more than he’s making. “It depends,” she qualifies, offering him the pipe again, “on what you’re selling.”

“Well, I’m not selling anything,” he tells her gruffly, and he has another go on the smoke. It’s not so bad this time.

“Not _yet_.” She smiles, settles back against a sack of grain. “But if you did…”

“If I did then _what_?”

“Dirty peasant,” she says, and it takes him a moment to realise that it isn’t an insult, just a description. “Filthy muscled farm-boy, all rough edges and cursing. _Vulgar_. That’s what you’d sell. And there’s money to be made in that, if you want to, Shoulders.”

“Ri-ight.” he shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think you would? Or you don’t think anyone’s buying?”

“Either. Both.” He clears his throat, finds the bottle of cheap rum Rinian traded him for covering his shift, and takes a gulp. It burns. Between that and the mirthweed he feels pretty … comfortable, even though he’s propped up on a straw-bale with bits sticking into his back all prickle-like. “Who’d want that?”

Katti laughs and reaches for his bottle. “You might be surprised.”


	2. Chapter 2

When it happens, he _is_ surprised.

The carriage is fancy, comes with a coachman and a footman, and Carver isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do when they manage it all themselves. Not that he knows jack about coaches, or horses, really; hardly anyone comes in a-horseback and they only keep on the three of them in the stable to cover shifts, just in case. This, he figures, is why the money is so bad -- not a lot of work in it. The only people who come in with horses tend to be toffy nobles who toss Rinian the reins and stalk into the common room with their noses in the air. Carver generally just bows to them and stays the fuck out of the way.

But this time, when the carriage pulls up and the footman jumps down to open the door, Rinian isn’t there, off gambling his pay away down the docks, and there’s just _Carver_. 

He bows, tries to stay out of the way, and realises that the person who has stepped out of the carriage is a lady only when she stops to look at him. “Oh,” she says.

Carver bows again, keeps his head down, and waits for her to go away.

“Well. Tall, aren’t you?” she says, and he glances up, surprised. The woman is wealthy, he can see that, with her lush cloak and the gold gleaming at her throat. She reaches out to touch her fingers to his chin and, Maker, it takes an effort not to pull away. Not that she’s horrid, not even, just from shock.

 _Don't do anything to upset our guests_ , Sanga told him when he was hired. _Whatever they want, and if it's in_ that _kind you say, 'I'll see what I can do.'_

She tilts his chin up and looks at him with a frank sort of appraisal he isn’t used to. “Tell me your name, boy.”

“Carver, uh, milady.” He supposes the ‘boy’ is justified. She’s older but handsome, and through the opening of her cloak he can see how trim she is, how nicely dressed, with the sort of wasp-waist he is fairly sure comes from very restrictive undergarments. _Thanks, Bethy._

“Mmmm.” She smiles, her teeth clean and even and white in the flickering torchlight of the yard. “You have lovely eyes. Your mother must be beautiful.”

“She was, milady.”

Her mouth makes a small shape. “Oh, you poor lamb.” And then she smiles again. “Will you bring me some wine? I have a private room. We can speak further.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “I’ll … see what I can do.”

“See that you do.” And she sweeps away, all feathers and black velvet.

Carver hovers, not quite sure what to do, until the footman clears his throat. “Well, boy? Best off to it, then. Grant’ll see to the horses, never mind that.”

“Uh, sure.” 

Sanga is chatting with a sailor by the bar, but she sees to Carver readily enough, and when he tells her what the lady said she blinks, leaning back and looking him over. "Well. The Bann tips very well, is all I'm saying. If you want to go back to her."

"To take the wine?" he clarifies, and Sanga's mouth curves into a smirk.

"And tickle her cunt. Oh-ho!" She prods him gleefully in the ribs. "Look at you _blush_! And such a big boy, too."

"I'm not ... that's not what you hired me for," Carver argues.

She shrugs, eyeing him up. "Hired you for your arse and your shoulders. Don't mind what use you put them to."

He has no idea what to say.

"You don't have to, pet. No-one's making you. The money's good, mind, and the Bann's a real lady. Who sometimes likes a bit of scruff to sort her out." She grins. "And you are that. A nice bit of scruff. Though, I never asked. You do know what to put where, don't you?"

His face could burn right off. "Yes! I know."

"Just checking." Her expression doesn't soften but her tone is kind, at least. "It wouldn't be the worst introduction to the business. So. Do as you like, lad."

Carver is still debating whether or not this is a good idea when he goes in with the wine and a glass on a tray. And with the straw in his hair that Katti had added for effect before scuffing it up and raking her fingers through it until Maker knows how he looks. She rubbed soot on his arm, too, before he could chase her off. Bloody Katti.

The Bann is sitting at a dressing table, cloak shed over the back of a chair, and she smiles at him in the reflection of her mirror. She's older, but not really _old_ , and her hair is streaked with grey but dark and prettily coiled. There's paint on her face, black around her eyes and red around her mouth, but not as much as he's seen on some of the girls here. And her smile is _nice_ , really, very nice.

Maybe this isn't such a terrible idea.

She has him sit on a stool beside her, and pour her wine, and she asks all sorts of questions about his mother, his sister, whether he has a sweetheart or has ever had a sweetheart. He is awkward about Mother, better about Bethy, and awkward again when she starts asking about _girls_ because while there have been girls there haven't been many and he's not sure if she will be happy or unhappy about that.

She seems happy. She has him sip out of her cup, and then, when the wine is gone she pulls him down onto the bed and everything happens very quickly.

It's not ... special, or anything. It's not terrible. He's nearly nineteen years old and works in a whorehouse and goes home every night to a bed he shares with his _sister_ so he's certainly pent up enough to manage what she asks of him.

After, she kisses his hair and calls him darling and has him tighten the laces of her dress. (Gown. He's pretty sure it's actually a gown.) "Here," she says, and presses something hard into his hand. "Buy something pretty for your sister."

He waits until he's out in the hallway to look. It's a sovereign. Carver knows it's a sovereign, though he's never actually _had_ one before.

And it's not really his, he thinks. So he finds Katti and shows her, and she giggles at him and tucks an arm through his. "You can keep it. Sanga settles the accounts seperate, so anything they give you is yours to keep. A tip. For a tup. You must have given her a good tupping, though!"

Carver's face ought to blister, that's how hot it is. "Katti!"

"Oh, come on, farmboy!" She reaches up to tug a wisp of hay out of his hair, smirking like a wretch. "She gave you a sovereign, must have been _quite_ a tumble."

"It wasn't, I don't ... it was just," he clears his throat, still blushing furiously. "I just did, you know, the thing, and, and that's it."

"Hmmm." Katti looks up at him, lips pursed. "I bet it really was, too. We'll have to work on that."

Whatever _that_ means.

At the end of the week he gets an extra twenty silvers in his pay, and when he gives it and the sovereign to Bethany he doesn't have to say anything more than that for her to know.

She touches his arm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he says. This is clearly not enough for her.

"Carver," and she squeezes. "Are you really?"

"Yes, _mother_ ," he grumbles, and she pinches him, hard.

"Don't you come the raw prawn with me, Carver Hawke!"

"Come the _what?_ "

She goes very red. "It's something the girls say. Down at the water pump. Anyway, you know what I mean."

He grins. "No, I don't. What's a prawn?"

"I'm ... not sure. It doesn't matter." She folds her arms and glares at him, and he knows it's a distraction but he lets her, just this once. "Did they hurt you? Did they bully you, Carver?"

"No," he says, because it's true. "It was fine."

"Fine." She doesn't seem to believe him. "And was it ... was he nice to you?"

"She," Carver says, knowing what she's really asking, "was very nice to me."

"So you're not ... they're not making you go with men, then?" She sounds relieved.

Carver shrugs. "No-one's making me do anything. But. We both need new soles on our boots, and the frypan's near burnt through and wouldn't you like _butter_ just one time?"

"I don't need butter," she says, straightening the laces of his shirt and not looking at him. "I don't need you to do that for butter."

"But you would have." He smooths a hand over her hair; it's getting dull now, not so glossy as it used to be, and Maker, he will buy her some of that nice soap the girls use, he'll ask Katti about it. "You'd have done it for me, and I'd have said the same."

She makes a face. "Why must you pick now of all times to be logical?"

"Cos. That's what brothers are for."


	3. Chapter 3

Bethany gets a cold, and it's nothing, nothing really, but he can't afford honey for her tea and it _rankles_. So he picks up extra shifts covering the common room, picking up mugs and glasses, taking them to the scullery, washing them when necessary. It's not too boring, and sometimes someone slaps him on the arse which is ... yeah, okay, that's definitely demeaning.

And now, of course, sometimes he's earning his money on his knees.

He doesn’t do it all that often. Maybe once a week. Maybe less. The Bann is fond of him, apparently, and then one night it isn’t her waiting for him in the Pearl’s best room but a woman with faded red hair and eyes like a cloudy morning, who is very, _very_ demanding, and isn’t satisfied until she’s made him run all over with sweat.

She tips pretty good, though, and her skin is soft and smooth and smells of sweet herbs, so he can’t complain.

He doesn’t, in any case; there’s no-one to complain to. He can’t talk about these things with Bethany because she doesn’t understand, just gives him worried looks and tuts at him, as though she doesn’t think he can handle all of it. Sanga has neither the time nor inclination to listen to his problems. Rinian’s not even an option. And Katti _teases_ so.

“The Bann’s old enough to be your mother,” she snorts, rubbing something stiff and sticky through his hair. “It’s _scandalous_.”

“It’s not, and she’s … not, is she?” He ducks his head away, but she grabs him firmly by the collar and yanks him back.

“She _is_ and hold still. Anyway. She and her friends are nice old ladies. Show them a good time, like a good boy, and don’t _worry_ about it.”

“I’m not worried! I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.” She gives him a critical look, and then scuffs up his hair a bit more in the back. “I’m starting not to believe you.”

They are, though, nice ladies (not old, really, just older than him) and he services them when they ask for him and ignores Rinian's sly comments about stale cake.

Mostly ignores, anyway. Sometimes he just can't.

"Fuck off,“ he growls, elbowing Rinian in the ribs. “Least I don't bend over for fucking _sailors_.“

Rinian chuckles, shoving Carver back hard enough that he stumbles into a stack of crates and nearly takes them down with him. Maker, Rinian's stronger than he looks. “Give it time. You'll work it out, 'ventually.“

When he tells her about it, Katti isn't at all sympathetic. "So, you reckon there's something wrong with bending? Something dirty in it? As though you're any better."

"What? Look, I only meant--"

"I know what you meant. And I know what you _said_.“ She fixes him with a Look, and how do women learn that? It makes him feel instantly about ten, and muddy, and he can't help but cringe from it. "We're all whores, Fox. Don't get uppity about it."

It always takes him a second to remember. Fox was the name Bethany let him give when they first got to Denerim, because 'Carver Hawke' is a deserter and they hang deserters in wartime.

At least she let him choose. Though, honestly, maybe she shouldn't have. It makes him feel silly, now, so obviously fake.

Carver thinks about it, shovelling horseshit in the stables, and at the end of the night he finds Katti to apologise. "You're right," he says, and he hates apologising, because Marian never took his apologies straight and would always make him feel worse about it somehow, (and thinking about Marian is terrible, this open wound he can't heal, that fills him with horrible _regret_ ). "Sorry. I'm no better."

She eyes him sternly and then she sniffs. "And no worse. Remember that. No matter what you do here, you're no worse than any of us."

He doesn't think he'll have to remember that, but he nods, offers her half the remainder of a sour bottle of wine, and she acquiesces, snugging up with him in a pile of dirty linens in a back room.

He's glad. If Katti hated him then he'd probably just leave. She's the one good thing about this place, other than the pay.

Still, Rinian keeps needling, and then one night a man with canvas trousers and a scarred face asks for _Carver_ and he just can't. He's not scared. He just ... no. No fucking way.

This time Katti is more sympathetic. "You don't _have_ to. You never have to, if you don't want. It's just ..."

"Just _what_?" 

They are coiled up in the stables again, cold despite the new spring, and she brought out a blanket for them to huddle under and share some smoke and cider.

She sighs, lets her head fall back against the straw, and gives him a frank look. "There's money in it."

"It's always about money," Carver grouses, crunching up a handful of straw and letting it filter through his fingers. "Why's it always gotta be that?"

"Come _on_. As if you don't know. As if that isn't exactly why we're _all_ here. 'Cept for Janaya. I think she actually enjoys it. She was a weaver, you know, before."

"And then what happened?"

"Husband died. She hated the alienage; she's from Gwaren, you know. So, she chucked it over and started up here, and I never saw a girl so happy to be a widow."

Carver doesn't know what to say to that. Janaya's nice, but she's so _flaky_. 

"If the thought of having a man go at you makes you sick to the stomach then don't do it. But if it doesn't, well. There's no harm in being under someone. Doesn't make you less."

She smiles encouragingly. Carver groans and closes his eyes, feeling high and drunk and tired. "I dunno."

"Don't know if it makes you less or don't know if it makes you sick?"

He takes a breath, holds it for a moment, and lets it go all in a rush. "Doesn't make me sick," he tells her, keeping his eyes closed because he doesn't want to see her face.

"Well, then. That's all right. It's not so bad. I've had men."

He does look at her then, and then he has to push away some straw that's dangerously close to his eye. "It's different for you. You're a lady. You ... you've got the parts for it."

She chuckles and pinches his arm. "I've had men in parts they weren't meant for. It's not so bad." Her grin is wicked, and he kind of wants to kiss it but that would be a Very Bad Idea. "It can be good, too. For a woman or a man. You might like it."

"I fucking doubt it," he argues, and she laughs, and it's nice to lie with her out on a pile of straw with smoke in their lungs and booze in their bellies.

"But," she says, soberly, which is fucking unnatural with everything they've had tonight. "If you're going to, you might want to have a go of it before you try selling it."

"I'm _not_ ," he insists, rocking up onto one arm that sinks immediately into the straw and leaves him floundering. "It's not something I ... I don't have to, you said, and I don't want--"

"But if you _do_ ," she says, levering herself up to rest her chin in her palm. "Best to have a go of it before the main show. If you want my advice, which you generally _don't_."

She is usually right. Carver feels his face scrunch up and says nothing on the subject.

"All I'm saying," she says, gesturing with her pipe, "is that you should try it _first_. Because it'll be worse with a customer. A _guest_ ," and does a pretty good impression of Sanga's bossy face, which makes Carver smirk. "Have a try. With someone who's going to be nice to you. Before letting someone have a go who doesn't have to be."

"I don't--" he starts, but there is a shuffle of cloth on the other side of the stall divider, and Rinian pops his head up, obviously drunk and also ruffled.

"Hullo," he says, and his mouth is broad and decadent. "Heard some things."

Carver has half a mind to tell him off, but Katti just grins at him and wiggles her fingers. "Hullo, Rin. Good night?"

"Pretty good," he says, leaning his arms on the top of the wall, messy and smirking, and he fixes Carver with a blatant leer. “I’ll fork your haystack, if it needs doing.”

Carver opens his mouth to tell him to lick a dick, but Katti just nods and passes Rinian the bottle. “If it needs.”

“It doesn’t _need_ ,” Carver argues. “I don’t … need to do that.”

Rinian snorts, passes back the botle, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Offer’s open, anyway.”

"That's _nice_ , Shoulders." Katti nudges Carver with her foot. "Say 'thankyou'."

"Fuck _off_ ," Carver growls, and Rinian laughs at him and struts off to do whatever he was planning to do anyway.

It doesn't help that Rinian is so lean, so firm, with his dark skin and black hair and eyes like roasted beans. He's _delicious_ , all cheekbones and tabacco-smell. Carver has thought about it, and tried _not_ to think about it, and now the thought won't go away.

Then a man asks for Carver _again_ , and Carver says 'no' again, but he isn't...

Bethany's making ends meet out of his wages, but if they're taking ship to Kirkwall like she's planning then they need _more money_.

So.

"Hey," he says, late one evening (morning, really). They've put everything away, fed the Pearl's two sad nags and bedded them up for the night, and Rinian's lounging on a barrel like he doesn't much fancy going home and has nowhere better to be, and Carver thinks ... _Maybe._

Rinian cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

Carver doesn't really know how to do this. "You wanna ... hang out? We could sit in the store-room," but Rinian is grinning, and slides off his barrel like a loose fish, still steady on his feet in a way that Carver really, really isn't.

He drank for this. He didn't want to do this sober.

"There's a free stall," Rinian says, holding out a hand and crooking his fingers, watching Carver with an all-too-knowing sort of gaze.

"If you like," Carver says, and he takes Rinian's hand, and it's rough but warm. "If it's clean."

"Clean enough," Rinian says, squeezing him for a moment before tugging him deeper into the stables.

The straw is fresh, very fresh, and Rinian sprawls out in it, eyes glittering in the torchlight. 

He's too handsome. Oh, Maker, his _mouth_...

"Um," Carver says, and he offers Rinian the brandy he kept aside for this, in case it was needed.

Rinian laughs, takes the bottle, and thumbs out the stopper. "Fancy, Fox. What is this, a date?"

Carver doesn't know, and he doesn't know what to say.

"Or did you just," and his voice drops down, smooth and deep and very attractive, "want me to fork your haystack?"

Carver can't help it; he laughs, kneeling down in the hay. And then -- it's private, here, not actually private but close enough, and the light spilling over the wall of the stall is enough that he can see Rinian lick his lips, can see his fine eyes and the enticing shapes his hands make as they tangle in Carver's collar. "Yeah. Can you ... is that okay?"

Rinian snorts, and pulls Carver down on top of him. "Lesson one: no kissing." But then he leans up to catch Carver's lip in his teeth, running his tongue over it as though he means to bruise.

The kissing is pleasant, hot and wet and Rinian shifts from Carver's lip to his tongue and after that it's hard to be particularly objective about it all. Rinian's mouth tastes of bad brandy. Carver can't even imagine what his own mouth tastes like, and when he thinks about it too much Rinian flicks him in the ear.

"Stop thinking. Just _do_ it."

So he stops thinking, and after that it's much better.

"You said," he gasps, giddy with the kissing and the press of Rinian's body aganst him, "no kissing."

"Not when it's for money." Rinian grins at him, both hands caught in Carver's belt. "But this isn't. So. It's okay."

"But you _said_ ," Carver insists, and Rinian's hands have his belt open now, are easing open the fastenings of his trousers. "I don't ... if you say things I'll ..."

"You'll what?" Rinian levers himself up to kiss Carver again and it's _nice_ , really nice. Bad brandy aside, he feels _good_ , and Carver can't help but want more of it. "Hey. Fox. It's okay." Rinian runs his fingers down the back of Carver's neck. "If you want it, it's okay." 

Carver swallows and nods. It's fine.

Rinian slides a hand inside Carver's trousers, tugs at his smalls, and chuckles. "Still wearing these. Cute."

"Nothing cute in there," Carver argues, but Rinian just twists the fabric of Carver's smalls until it pulls tight and awkward across his cock, grinning like the jerk he is.

" _Everything_ in here's cute." His other hand snakes down the back of Carver's pants to pinch his rear and Carver yelps.

"Steady on!"

"Settle, petal. You're still _thinking_. Which is funny, 'cos you don't look much of a thinker, usually."

Carver _could_ argue.

But Rinian takes hold of him then, and the curve of his hand is too immediate to ignore.

"So," Rinian says, once he has Carver full in his palm, "ever sucked a dick?"

"No," Carver confesses. It comes out rougher than he'd meant, but Rinian just smiles, pulling at him with slow strokes that make it hard for Carver to look him in the eye.

"Ever had your dick sucked?"

Carver licks his lips. "No."

"Well," and Rinian shifts, tipping Carver over into the straw. "Let's start there, then."

It's ... 

wet, actually. Good, though, tight and, and wet, and Carver can feel it unfurl something at the base of his spine that he didn't know was furled. Then Rinian comes up, mouth all red, and says it's Carver's turn. Carver obliges, feeling self-conscious, but then he has his mouth full of cock and it's ...

okay. Not _bad_. He likes how Rinian curses, how he knots a hand in Carver's hair and _tugs_. Makes Carver feel like he's doing something right.

And then Rinian has him up again and he's _grinning_. "So, what do you want? I can finish in your mouth or fuck you, which do you want?"

Carver has no idea. And it's ... awkward. "I ... just," get it over with, "fuck me. I guess."

"Got any slick?" Carver doesn't know what he means and it must show because Rinian snorts, combing his fingers through Carver's hair. "Didn't think so. So no, thanks. But," and he leans up to kiss Carver on the cheek, "next time, okay?"

"What about this time?" 

Carver doesn't know why he's arguing; Rinian just licks his ear and breathes, " _Later_ ," into it, and pushes him back down, and--

And. He kind of ... likes it. Rinian is beautiful, and swearing his fucking head off, and it makes Carver feel hot and eager. Rinian in his mouth is sweet and salty, and then very bitter, so Carver spits into the straw when Rinian suggests it. And then Rinian kisses him again and it's so _good_.

"All right, Fox," Rinian says, breathless but still cocky as fuck. "Lemme show you how."

Which is when Carver realises that he knows _nothing_ , how could he ever, because Rinian's mouth is like ... he isn't sure but, Maker _fuck_ , it's _good_. 

When he's done he lies uselessly in the straw, heaving breaths into the early morning air, and Rinian collapses, catlike, against his shoulder. "Pretty good?"

"Yeah," Carver says, more an exhalation than a statement, but it's the best he can manage. 

"I'll fuck you proper next time, if you like," Rinian says, stretching and sitting up a bit. He scrubs a hand through his hair and blinks, still smirking. "Any time, if you want."

"I ... thanks." 

Rinian yawns, and then he saunters off home, and Carver staggers back to the room he shares with his sister, tired and sticky but weirdly elated.

Bethany wakes up as soon as he tries to climb into bed. "Carver?" she murmurs, and then she stiffens. "Carver. Are you all right? It's so late."

"I'm fine." He really is. "Everything's fine."

She's silent, and then when he lies down she wraps herself around him. They're too old for this, he's pretty sure, but she's his _sister_ and there's no-one in the world he'd feel better about having wrapped around him, even if her nails are sharp.

"Hey, you."

"Hey yourself," she mutters, burrowing into his shoulder. "You're cold, Carver. You should wear a coat."

"I'm okay. Are you warm enough?"

"I'm _fine_. Or I will be, once you warm up. Stop worrying."

He can't help it. It's all he's good for.

"What happened?"

He hates how she always knows. He ... doesn't really hate it, actually, but right now he doesn't want to talk about it. "Nothing."

" _Something_. Don't lie, ox-face."

She always _does_ know. "Nothing. I'm just ... Might be able to get some more money. For our passage to Kirkwall. So, if you're set on it--"

"I am, but," and she leans up on his shoulder, her ribs a weight against his back. "Carver. Don't do anything reckless. All right? Maybe Uncle Gamlen will pay our way."

"Maybe, or we could pay our own. Can't beg charity of some bloke we've never met."

"Our _uncle_ , Carver." She jostles him a little. "We've never had an uncle before."

"Never needed one, neither." And why should he care, some old man in a city Carver can't even imagine, in his manor with his servants and hounds? Why should he care about two Fereldan _urchins_ , living in a leaky slum, and one of them a whore? Carver shrinks into Bethany's arms, tucking one cold foot around her ankle. "We'll be fine. Trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are wondering why the stalls are so comfortably stuffed with straw, it is because the Pearl caters to all sorts, and likes to be prepared just in case someone has a stable-hand fantasy. Which evidently people do.
> 
> Or, in other words, because I wanted it that way.


	4. Chapter 4

Every time Carver catches his eye Rinian _smirks_ , and it’s driving Carver crazy.

Part of him worries that Rinian will say something obvious; the other fellow is so random, so likely to start a thing just for laughs, inclined as he is to prank, and it makes Carver worry. But Rinian doesn’t do a damn thing, just licks his lip and _leers_ , and Carver can’t … he doesn’t … he kind of likes it, actually, likes how Rinian looks at him, and kind of wants to waylay Rinian and snog that smirk right off his stupid face.

Still, it _is_ Rinian who starts it, coming up behind Carver all of a sudden one evening in the stables while Carver is shoving a haybale up atop another haybale, thinking about dinner and whether or not he might get an evening off soon to spend with Bethany. Rinian is just suddenly _there_ , one arm snaking around Carver’s middle and his mouth close to Carver’s ear whispering, “Hey, Fox. Fancy a shag?”

Carver jerks, not used to this kind of thing, and nearly shrugs Rinian off. “I … I guess?”

It makes Rinian laugh, nuzzling up into the nape of Carver’s neck. “Don't fret about it if you _don’t_ , I was just _offerin'_.”

Carver takes a deep breath and dusts off his hands on his thighs. “Nah, just … yeah, okay. If _you_ want.”

“O-ho, I _want_ , all right. Been eyeing up your arse all sodding night.”

Which is good, Carver thinks. Makes him feel pretty good, anyway, and Rinian is warm and solid against his back. “Yeah,” so he turns around, leaning back up against the bales of hay and tucking a hand around the sharp jut of Rinian’s hip. “Okay. Sounds good to me.”

Rinian’s grin is too white and too sharp and somehow perfect.

They end up in the storeroom, Carver arse-up against a barrel, and Rinian’s mouth tastes of stale tobacco but Carver really doesn’t care. There’s something about being wanted that makes Carver hot for it, makes him grabby, and Rinian doesn’t seem to mind, soft-but-firm under Carver’s palms and so _eager_. That’s good. Fuck, that’s good.

“Hey,” Carver asks, once Rinian has snuck one of his hands down the front of Carver’s trousers, “D’you … do _you_ have any slick?” He knows what the slick is for, now, because Katti is very helpful in some respects, and Rinian tips his face into the hollow of Carver’s neck, snorting to himself with amusement.

“Yeah, got plenty. Check my belt.”

Carver feels him up, and sure, there’s a bottle tucked into a pouch alongside his purse; Carver pulls it out, holds it up, trying not to look nervous but … well, he _is_.

Rinian grins, takes it out of Carver’s hand with his fucking _teeth_ , and waggles his eyebrows before spitting the bottle into his palm. “Turn over, then.”

It’s … awkward, Carver’s pretty sure, but Rinian pulls Carver’s trousers down around his knees and presses a wet kiss to one of his buttocks, chuckling soft and low.

“Well, aren’t you _pretty_.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Carver growls, hot in the face, but it only makes Rinian snigger, and then there’s something smooth and slick running down the cleft of Carver’s arse, finding him tight and defenseless down there, and pushing up firmly into him. “Oh my _fucking Maker_...”

“You’re okay,” Rinian insists, and he ducks his head to breathe into the space between Carver’s shoulderblades, comforting him with a swipe of tongue while he works his way inside. “Come on, Fox, you’re _fine_. Look at you, fine _as_. You’re a bloody treasure. I’m gonna fuck you, and you’re gonna _love_ it, I reckon. Din’t you want your haystack forked?”

It makes Carver laugh, and that makes everything downstairs feel different and weird, or weirder. “Yeah. I ... yeah, go on. What’re you waiting for?”

“Gotta work you up to it, first time.” Everything gets tighter and hotter, and Carver knows, _That’s two fingers of his hand in me. That’s … maybe more? In me, Maker’s mercy, surely that’s enough._

But Rinian doesn’t stop there, just eases off and eases back in again, and it’s a lot but good enough that Carver hears himself groan, dropping his head down onto the forearms he has braced against the barrel. Maker, he wants Rinian to get on with it but … if this is ‘working up to it’ then maybe ‘it’ is more than he’s expecting.

“Don’t tense, that won’t help. Yeah, _there_ you go. You’re gunna feel so fucking good, Fox, I just know it.”

“Shut _up_ ,” and he can’t help how whiny it sounds. “Just fucking do it, you _arsehole_ ,” but Rinian runs his hand down Carver’s back, fingers splayed and firm, and Carver shuts his damn mouth because Rinian is whispering ‘shut your damn mouth’ in his ear.

It’s more than he expects, but less than he feared. Rinian’s sweet about it, mouth open against Carver’s shoulder and muttering, “Yeah, Fox, yeah you can,” into Carver’s skin as he fucks his way in.

Rinian jerks into him a few times, fingers bruising Carver’s hips, and the weight of him feels good enough that it makes Carver lightheaded and breathless. Then Rinian pulls Carver up against his chest, one hand finding Carver’s cock and bringing him off in a few fast strokes. _That’s_ good. That bit’s _amazing_.

And then Rinian sucks on him, high up on his neck where anyone could see but not, Carver thinks, hard enough to leave a mark. “There you go. Forked.” He laughs, muffled against Carver’s shoulder and Carver can’t help his stupid face curling into a grin.

* * *

“Fox, got a job for you, if you want it.”

Carver shoves the tray back across the scullery bench, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah?”

Sanga has her fists propped on her hips and is looking him over like she’s thinking of selling him. Which … okay, she probably is thinking that exactly. “I know Rinian’s walked you through things. Got the basics down, don’t you?”

He knows what she means. He doesn’t blush. “Yeah. I reckon so.”

“Got a nice gentleman who likes a bit of choice. He doesn’t come in, so we send a couple of girls and a lad out to him. Normally, I won’t have with home visits,” and her face goes all hard for a moment. “But this one’s clean and _safe_ , pet. There’s extra in it for you, since it’s out of the ordinary. And he’s a pretty one, if that matters to you. Orlesian, though, if that does.”

Carver chews his lip. He’d known this was coming. And … “What do I have to do?”

“Whatever he asks.” She raises one shoulder, pulls a face. “A suck or a fuck, most likely. Can you manage that?”

He _can_ , but … except she said extra, and extra’s always good. “How much is it?”

She smirks, and it’s a whore smirk, but by now he knows better than to think she’s mocking him. “That’s my boy.”

The Orlesian's a little weird. Carver doesn't really mind that he's Orlesian, or the beard, or walking back to the Pearl smelling like a field of lavender. He doesn't mind the way Janaya slinks up to him on the way back and loops an arm through his (casual like, as though they haven’t had each other on their _tongues_ ), teasing him about how much she likes his rear.

He especially doesn't mind Rinian waiting for him with a cure bottle and a grin. "Stable's closed, Fox." 

Carver really likes that. "What are you doing here then?"

There's never any point in calling Rinian's bluff. "Waitin' for you." His eyebrows go up. "Unless you're spent. You're not _spent_ are you?"

He's not. The bloke at the manor hadn't seemed much interested in Carver's spend, which always leaves Carver a little edgy. "It's cute that you're waiting for me," he says, following Rinian to the back of the stables, into a storeroom there.

"Cute that you saved me sumthin' ," and Rinian has him up a against a crate that rattles ominously.

“Oh yeah?” Rinian is all over rough whiskey and smoke, and Carver pushes his hands into the crown of Rinian’s hair. “You got anything left for me?”

His hands knot in Carver’s belt. “Saved it up all night, Fox. Just for you.”

It’s not true. Carver doesn’t care.

The Pearl’s not so bad, now, with Rinian always around a corner, maybe wanting a kiss or a toss, and Carver can’t explain it to Bethany because, yeah, just _no_.

They don’t see much of each other any more, Carver staggering home in the dead of night and Bethany up with the birds. She’s taking in laundry; she uses magic on it and the results are variable. Carver can’t bear the stink of other people’s linens, so usually he clears out first chance he gets.

Today, though, he wakes up in the afternoon to the sound of voices, and it’s a good thing he wore trousers to bed because there are women in the kitchen, three of them and only one of them is Bethany.

“Uh,” he grunts, thick and dull in the archway. The women who aren’t his sister laugh in a way that he remembers pretty sourly. _What’s_ wrong _with you, little brother?_ But, still. “Morning?”

“Oh, Bessy, you never said you had a lad,” one of the women coos. The other woman eyes Carver up, nothing he’s not used to by now.

Bethany makes a face, pouring some of what smells like the good tea into a cup. “That’s my _brother_. Carver. I told you about him.”

“ _Mercy_ ,” the first woman says, cutting Bethany a rakishly sly look. “In my head he was all of ten years old, with scabby knees.”

“Mine too,” Bethany says, taking down another cup. “Carver, put a shirt on, you _oaf_. Come have tea.”

He does, and the tea’s good but the cakes Bethany’s friends have brought are better, and it’s nice, talking like they’re normal and all grown up. Carver relaxes. No-one asks much of him, just a few jibes about his shoulders and how someone’s sister lost her heart-sworn at Ostagar and now wouldn't mind a bit of company, which he can sympathise with, honestly, and he’s not sure but he _thinks_ it goes all right.

Bethany seems pleased, in any case. “That was nice. Wasn’t that nice? I thought it was. Carver, there’s cake on your collar, dust it off.”

Carver does, and then she growls at him for dusting it onto the floor and, urgh. “Hey. It was good, all right?”

“You were _egoising_ ,” Bethany says, sounding very much like Father. “Flexing your muscles so.”

“Can’t help my muscles. I _lift_ things. They just happen by themselves.”

She wrinkles her nose. “They’re _disgusting_. Anyway. It _was_ nice, wasn’t it? Like normal people.”

His own thought, because she is his mirror. “Yeah. A mage and a whore, but like normal people.”

“Must you say them together like that?”

If it were anyone else that would sting, but it’s his _Bethy_ , so he knows what she means. “Aren’t they both, though?”

She doesn’t like what he’s doing, he knows, has never liked it, but when she says as much he reminds her that this had been her plan first. It’s usually enough to win the argument, but never quite enough to actually _win_ , because she scowls and dances ice-crystals up his arms more often than not, and there’s nothing he can do to stop her.

The urge to be like normal people comes and goes. Normal people have to work a lot harder, he thinks. And get up earlier. And can't kill time on the job sucking Rinian's tongue behind the feed-sacks. 

Foolishly, and only because he thinks _Bethany_ thinks it’s okay to share space with friends, he invites Rinian home with him one murky morning with the sun just greying the horizon. Rinian snorts, tugging Carver’s shirt and looking all-knowing. “It’s too early. Later?”

He’s right; later Carver imagines how angry Bethany might have been if he’d surprised her with company at birdsong, and he shudders. So instead Bethany has time to do her hair and her dress, and splurge some coin at the market, before Rinian walks in.

It's weird how easily Rinian lounges in one of their creaky chairs, charming Bethany with compliments and a messy fist of daisies until she actually blushes. Carver feels... He's not sure, actually. Confused. Anxious. Bethany isn’t telling Rinian off for chewing sausage with his mouth open, and Rinian keeps grinning at her, and Carver’s not _jealous_ , but it makes him uneasy.

They finish up, and they’re both due in at the Pearl tonight, Rinian in the stables and Carver with-him-but-also-collecting-glasses-when-necessary, so they walk up together from the tenement Carver and Bethany are staying in all the way to the Pearl, or almost all the way. Carver pulls up short, and Rinian pauses, glancing over his shoulder with an eyebrow arched like a question.

“Hey,” Carver says, and he’s not sure how to put it but he has to. “Don’t tumble my sister.”

Rinian grins, leaning up against the wall of a bakery, thumbs hooked in his belt and, urgh, why does he have to look so fuckable all the time? “Wasn’t gunna. Though, I never thought your sister’d be so pretty, y’know?”

“We’re twins,” Carver tells him, not sure what it’s supposed to mean, but meaning it all the same.

“Yeah. So I figured she’d be _po_ faced.” He grins some more, and Carver scowls at him. “Aw, you hurt?”

“Fuck off.”

Rinian reaches out, tucks his hand into Carver’s belt, and pulls him up to be kissed. “Don’t _worry_. Not gunna touch your sister, ‘less she pays for it. Yeah? Hey,” and he tilts his head, cutting Carver a sly and secretive look. “Y’know I’m not giving it up for free for anyone but you.”

It’s … it’s good. Carver pushes Rinian up against the wall and takes a string of hard, messy kisses from him before letting him go. Rinian wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, smirking like he’s being paid for it, and pinches Carver hard on the arse.

“Come on, Fox.” He shoves off from the wall, grinning over his shoulder before sauntering away. “Time to go.”

He’s ... something. Carver wants, but he doesn’t know how to say, well, anything, so he works his shoulders and grins at Rinian as he tries his best to fall into the same saunter. “To the Black City,” and it makes Rinian laugh, shunting Carver into a wall.

“Yeah, what _ever_.”

It’s _good_. Work isn’t so bad. And through it all, over a tray of glass or a bale of hay, Rinian grins at him, and Carver can’t come up with anything important to be cranky about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know where I'm going with this but also I dunno if I'll get there. Hope is a wonderful thing :)
> 
> In related news: I pretty much write this when I feel silly and porny and irresponsible. Sorry, wargoddess, I guess my love for you is silly and porny and irresponsible?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty Pleasure writing day. Sorry, I needed to.

Rinian thinks the civilian militia is a bad idea, but Carver likes it, goes along a couple of days a week to work out his frustrations against a block of wood with a helmet propped on the top of it. He spends a bit of his pay on a sword to replace the one they’d sold back when they needed the coin; it’s a piece of shit, but the old one was a piece of shit too, and he can’t really afford better. Or, rather, he could but he feels bad shopping for non-essentials when Bethany’s hoarding all their money for passage to Kirkwall.

Rinian thinks Kirkwall is a bad idea too. Val Royeaux, he says, is the place to be.

“You can make a lot of money on your back in Orlais,” he confides one chilly evening, breathing a lungful of smoke into the night air. “Kirkwall’s fussy.”

“We’ve got family in Kirkwall. And my sister wants to go.”

“Your sister’d look right nice in one of them fancy Orlesian dresses.” Rinian grins into Carver’s scowl. “Kirkwall necklines go all the way to the chin.”

“I don’t want my sister flashing her tits around in Val-bloody-Royeaux,” Carver says very hotly, but it only makes Rinian laugh and press him up against a bale of hay. Maker, he’s so _warm_.

“They’re good tits, Fox. Can’t blame her if she wants to show ‘em off.”

“She doesn’t want.”

“She might, you never know.” He grins, palming Carver through his trousers. “Tight _pants_ in Orlais, too. You’d look _good_.”

It’s not the point. “So, what, you’re going to Orlais? Not sticking it out here?”

“With a Blight on? Screw that. Darkspawn scare the living shit outta me.”

“They’ll never make it as far as Denerim,” Carver argues, not sure that it’s true, and in any case the look Rinian gives him is sceptical.

“Dunno that I’m gunna risk my neck on your say-so. I’m _out_ , first chance I get.”

It makes Carver tense, awkward and unhappy. But he doesn’t have an argument to make Rinian stay and, anyway, Katti seems to think the whole whatever-this-is with Rinian is a bad idea as well.

“He taught you everything you need to know, Fox. Just finish up with him and get _on_ with things.”

Carver tries not to frown, but it just seems to happen to his face. “Mind your own business. You don’t _know_.”

“You think I don’t?” She yanks hard on his vest, mouth twisting. “You think I’ve never made that mistake?”

“It’s not a mistake. Leave off, will you?”

She sighs, and then jabs him in the ribs with her pointy fingers. “It’s no good. You’ll get your heart broken.”

“I _won’t_. It’s just … just fucking around, anyway.”

“I don’t think you’re any good at ‘just fucking around’.” She makes a face. “I don’t know _what_ you’re good at.”

“Pretty good at sucking dick,” Carver tells her, and she snorts, thwapping him on the arse. “Ow! No, I fucking am. Rin _said_.”

“I bet he says that to all the boys,” she teases, but Carver shakes his head.

“Nuh-uh. I’m the _best_.”

She sighs, but she looks amused. “I’ll let Sanga know, shall I?”

He supposes she must, because after that Sanga starts telling people that, and Carver doesn’t exactly regret it but he does find himself sucking an awful lot of dick.

The money’s good. Bethany doesn’t ask him about it but she frowns every time he tips a handful of gold and silver into her palm, and it makes him … awkward. And unhappy.

She’s been writing to their uncle, he knows, and one evening she catches him before he walks out, forcing a cup of tea into his hand and making him sit down to talk. “About Kirkwall.”

“Changed your mind? We could go somewhere else. Val Royeaux is--” but she shakes her head and he shuts down, not sure what she’s about to say but certain that he won’t like it.

“I haven’t. But. There’s no money in Kirkwall. The estate is gone, and Uncle Gamlen says if we want a way into Kirkwall we’ll have to pay for it.”

It’s a blow, honestly, but if it’s just money, then … “I can get us more money. If we need it. Tell me how much.”

She looks unhappy, but she names a figure and … it’s a lot. Still. “I can get that. It’ll take time, but I reckon I can.”

“I don’t want you to!” She covers her face with her hands, shoulders hunched, and he reaches out to touch her because she’s _his Bethy_ and she should never look like this.

“ _Hey_. It’s okay. I don’t mind. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

It’s supposed to make her feel better but the glare she sends his way between her fingers is the opposite of that. “ _I’ll_ do whatever it takes.” Then she picks up her teacup, sipping it carefully, like a lady, like the lady she’s always been, and it makes his chest ache with something he can’t express, even to himself. “I’ve been offered a job.”

“Not in a fucking brothel,” he says quickly, because just _no_.

She shakes her head. “No, not that. Something … maybe worse. Not for me,” she adds, cutting his protests short, “just not … it’s not legal. At all.”

“Tell me.” What else can he say?

It’s smuggling; the smugglers want a mage, and Carver argues that it’s too dangerous, especially with so many Templars around, and he demands to know how she heard about it and _what has she been saying_ for someone to offer her this? But she has an answer for everything -- it’s not too dangerous, the Templars are paid off, and she heard it from a friend who doesn’t even know about her -- and he can’t … he can’t argue, not really.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want you to do the things _you_ do,” she says, low and quiet, and he knew that already so it doesn’t come as a shock.

“I can make the money, I know I can. Just give me some _time_.”

“Would _you_? If it were me doing … things at the Pearl. Would you just sit back and wait?”

She’s right. Of fucking course.

Maker, how he wishes she were wrong.

“I’ll race you,” he says at last. “See who gets the money first.”

She laughs, and her hand on his arm is warm and welcome, and _fuck_ , how he _loves_ her. “All right, then, big brother.”

So. He goes back to the Pearl and he doesn’t much like coming home with the taste of cock still in the back of his throat, doesn’t like that maybe he’s _breathing_ it all over his sister, but there’s coin in it and, and he doesn’t have any other fucking _choice_.

And then.

It’s early still but Rinian is _late_ , and Carver is mad at him because he’s had to cover the shift all by himself. So when Rinian shows up in the sunset, the sky pink and purple behind his head, Carver doesn’t notice at first that Rinian’s not really dressed for work, that his trousers are rough canvas and his shirt is loose, and that he has a rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Instead, he says, “Where the fuck have you been?” and Rinian grins, dropping that bag and leaning on the side of a stall while Carver blows the stupid length of his sweaty fringe out of his eyes and glares as good as he knows how.

“Gettin’ my things. I’m going.”

“Going _where_?”

“Antiva.” Rinian shrugs, coming around the barrier to plant a hand in the middle of Carver’s chest, and Carver resists because … because he doesn’t know why. “I’m out on the tide. That’s what they say, anyway.”

“Who says?”

“Sailors.” Rinian lifts a shoulder, lets it drop, and his fingers are so hard up against Carver’s vest that Carver can’t think too much about anything else. “I’m gunna be a sailor, for a while.”

It … makes an awful sort of sense. “Not Orlais, then? What happened to ‘Val Royeaux is the place to be’?”

“Din’t work out. Hey, though,” and he pushes, and Carver lets go of his pitchfork because … this is happening. He _knew_ this would happen. He didn’t think it would happen so soon. “Just came to say goodbye.”

“Sanga won’t like it,” Carver tells him, not sure what else he’s supposed to say.

Rinian, though, seems to know. He always does. “Don’t give a fuck in the void what Sanga likes. Weren’t for you I’d be gone already.”

It’s … more than he could ever have expected. “ _Rin_. Do you have to go?”

“Yeah.” Rinian leans in, his hands warm and tight on the rise of Carver’s hips, and he shoves Carver back until he’s yet again hard up against something with Rinian in his face. “Miss you, though. Din’t think I’d miss anythin’ about this shithole, but,” and he grins, “I’ll miss _you_.”

“Yeah, you’ll miss my mouth on your cock,” Carver says, and he doesn’t know why he’s being like this, just feels as though if he’s anything else he’ll just … he’ll _something_ , and he doesn’t want that. So he tucks his fingers into Rinian’s belt and pulls him closer, and he says, “Got time for one last?”

“Wish I did. But, the tide,” and Rinian sighs, looking for once as though there is actually something he regrets. “Got time for a kiss, though. If you’ve got one for me.”

It’s not fair. But it’s all he’ll get. So Carver wraps his arms around Rinian’s waist and leans in to find his mouth, and he tastes like bad rum and tobacco and fucking _freedom_ , and Rinian kisses him so hard Carver thinks his mouth might bruise.

And then it’s over. Rinian grins at him. “Ask after me, if you ever make it to Antiva City.”

“I fucking will,” Carver says, and then Rinian goes to pick up his bag and … that’s it. They’re done.

He gets so drunk that night that Katti takes pity on him and makes him up a pallet in the back room. “You’re a disgrace,” she says, stroking his hair. “What a disgraceful bloody fool you are.”

“You told me.” He hates to admit it, but it’s true. “Should’a listened to you.”

“You should _always_ ,” she tells him, but her fingers separate the clumps of wax in his hair, smoothing gently against his scalp. “I’m not just a silly old bint, you know.”

“I know, and you’re _not_.” It sounds like a moan, and maybe it is, and he curls up miserably in his rotten blankets. “I’ll listen, next time.”

“Don’t let there _be_ a ‘next time’,” she says, but there will, he thinks. Unless he doesn’t live long enough to see it.

He takes a couple of days to himself, which drives Sanga mad because Noel has to cover the stables on his own, and when Carver comes back there’s a new boy there, with fair wispy hair and a weak smile, and Carver hates him but can’t really bring himself to show it.

“All right,” Carver says, when Sanga’s done chewing him out for his stupid inability to do anything. “Got any more dick for me to suck?”

Her smile is wicked. “That’s my boy.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Come _on_ , lazy beast. It’s past midday.”

“And I got home after _dawn_ ,” Carver argues, but he lets Bethany drag him out of bed, and he carries her buckets because she makes a good point. It's not just _her_ job to ferry water up into their tiny room-and-a-half.

At least it’s a nice day, the sun not quite sure it’s summer yet, breeze blowing cool across the foulness of Denerim. Maker, the _smell_ of it. Lothering hadn’t been much but it was definitely sweeter. Denerim is like a refuse pit with its stink, and that’s reason ninety-nine why he hates it here. Or less, maybe, he’s never actually tried to keep count. Still, he does hate the stench, and he misses a nice open field, and the open sky. Even the stars here look wrong, small and faint, just tiny pinpricks in the night sky. 

But this afternoon, with the sun doing its best through the clouds and the kiss of wind on his cheek, Denerim’s almost tolerable. Bethany shunts him in the shoulder, and he shunts her back a little harder than he meant to but her scowl is same as he’d wanted, and then she tries to trip him down the walkway.

It’s not far to the pump, but then there’s a mess of women around it, and Carver can’t abide the waiting. He doesn’t bother to hide it, just shuffles and sighs and makes faces at Bethany until she elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Stop that, you’re _annoying_.”

“Bored, you mean. I’m definitely bored. This is boring.”

“It always _is_. Just … look around.”

He tries it. There’s nothing to look at. “Yeah, and?”

“Just look _around_.” She leans up against his shoulder, not quite whispering but dropping her voice all the same. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

She sounds too much like Marian and he feels his face knot up despite him. Still. He has another look about and there’s nothing, really. Just a bunch of women in dull, patched-up clothes waiting for a turn at the pump. It was never like this in Lothering, never so many women all at once. Some of them are elves, he sees, but standing off to one side. They’re waiting, he supposes, for the other women to finish up and that’s … they aren’t in the regular queue. Why not? All those elves together, just waiting.

They’re not the only ones, though. There are some other women together in a bunch out of the way, some elven and some human and even a dwarf, and while there’s nothing particular about them they do sort of look familiar. They’re loud, and one of them’s smoking a pipe and, as he watches, a woman in a very bright frock slaps another woman on the shoulder and laughs hard as anything, and Carver recognises her.

“Carver, where are you _going_?” Bethany asks, dragging on one of his bucket-handles.

“Just gunna say hi,” he tells her, letting her have the buckets. She frowns at him, mouth opening, but then she tracks his gaze and shuts up, still frowning. Whatever _that’s_ about. He leaves her there, anyway, goes over to the group and cocks his head. “Hey, Glory. Nice day for it.”

She grins at him. “‘Lo Fox. Whatcha doin’ down here? Your woman sick or something?”

“Don’t got a woman. Got a sister, though, and she’s,” he jerks his chin in Bethany’s direction, “makin’ me carry shit for her, like always.”

“Ooh, I see. Gotta make use of those shoulders,” she teases, and then she introduces him to the others.

He knows Irne and Tris, and a couple of the girls who come by the Pearl after hours sometimes for a bit of chitchat -- Glory tells him they’re from the Fancy Bit, which makes sense he guesses. They ask him if he’s working tonight, which he is, and then invite him to visit later, maybe have a drink with them out back. A pretty woman with tight black curls offers to supply the first round so he says okay, and then Bethany’s calling him back to carry her buckets so he goes to her.

She doesn’t say much on the way home, just frowns at him as he lugs the buckets up all the rotten stairs, and keeps on frowning even after he’s set the mostly-unspilt things down in the room they keep pretending is their kitchen. 

“What? Something crawled up your pants?”

Bethany makes a disgusted noise. “You were flirting with those _women_.”

“Wasn’t. Anyway, as if you care. You never minded me flirting in Lothering.”

“You weren’t scouting out customers in Lothering.”

He can’t help it; he laughs, and he’s laughing _at_ her so he supposes he deserves it when she kicks him sharply in the ankle. “Ow! Sodding … Bethy, you twit. They’re not _customers_. Maker, they’d charge _me_ for it.”

She looks uncertain. “Really.”

“Yeah, really. We’re doing drinks, later.” She’s still so sceptical, so he says without thinking, “You can come, if you like.”

“For drinks. In a brothel?”

“Well, you don’t have to,” he says, inexplicably cross all of a sudden. “If you’re too fucking fancy for it.” Too fancy for the Fancy Bit; it’s a laugh, that is. Or it would be, if he weren’t so peeved.

Her mouth makes such a perfect o, and then she touches his arm, very lightly. “Fancy? When have I ever been fancy?”

“You’re always fancy,” he grumbles, but her hand is soothing, and he forgives her at once. “You’re a bleeding _lady_ , you are.”

“And what do you think that makes you, then, fancy-man?”

He grins. It does fit. “Sumthin’ like that.”

She sighs, propping her fists on her hips. “If Mother could hear you swearing and slurring all over the place she’d pinch you _so hard_. I suppose I’d _best_ go with you, then. Who knows what kind of bad habits you’re picking up?”

“ _All_ of them,” he tells her. “Here, we got any cheese? I’m _starving_.”

He regrets it all later, when Glory insists on coming with him to fetch his sister; Bethany gets a good look at Glory’s frock and her eyes go wide. There’s a lot of bosom in that frock, Carver realises. And out of it, too. Makes Bethany look demure as a Chantry sister, really, and he’s not sure how she’s going to like that.

The Fancy Bit isn’t quite as fancy as the Pearl, despite the name, doesn’t have a stable and doesn’t serve meals, and the girls are drinking in the dressing-room all perched on crates or lolling about in piles of grubby linen. They get a stool for Bethany, though, dusting it off with what looks like a clean handkerchief, and then everyone tries to pretend Carver hasn’t just brought his virtuous sister to a whorehouse as if that’s a normal thing to do.

One of them offers Bethany a jar of something brown and cloudy. He’s half a mind to warn her off it but has a feeling she’d skin him if he tried, so he watches in vague horror as his little sister takes a cautious mouthful of hooch and then nearly coughs up a lung.

“Andraste’s _knickers_ ,” she gasps, to general amusement. “It’s like peaches on _fire_!” And then she has another go, making such faces Carver can’t help laughing.

It goes … all right. Mostly, anyway, Bethany chatting to the girls and Carver drinking a bit and laughing with a woman twice his age wearing half as much as he is. Her name’s Grace and it fits her, really, the way she holds her cup and tips it up, and leans so easily on one palm to smile at him.

He’s almost relaxed by the time the door bangs open and an elf in a pea-green robe stalks in to cut a really nasty look at all of them lounging about. “All right! Which of you bitches threw a party and didn’t invite me?”

Carver’s not sure what to do, thinks about getting up if he has to, but then Grace just _laughs_ , leans over to catch one of the elf’s trailing sleeves and tug on it. “Don’t curse anyone, love. Come here and meet my new friend.”

The elf huffs, chin going up like a pike-blade, and he _glares_ at Carver. “You’re not supposed to bring customers--” but then he does this fabulous double-take, gaze sliding over Carver’s naked arms and then up to his face -- Carver’s acutely aware of the smudges around his eyes where Katti painted him before -- and then he _smirks_. “Oh. My mistake. Hel _lo_.”

It’s ridiculous, and Carver can’t help his snort. “Yeah, all right. Hi.”

Bethany kicks him, as if he’s being rude or something, but Carver ignores it and the new bloke doesn’t seem to notice, just sinks down onto the laundry-pile on Grace’s other side, and props his chin in his palm. “Where did _you_ come from?”

“Lothering,” Carver says without thinking, but then he realises. “Uh … the Pearl, y’know?”

“Oooh, fancy.” He gives Grace a look, and when all she does is laugh again he sighs, tossing his head. “Gracey, introduce me, you dirty whore.”

Carver thinks it’s not nice to say things like that, even when, well, they’re kinda true, but Grace smacks the elf on one arm (very delicately, how do you even do that?) and smiles. “This is Fox. Fox, love, this is Kinnis. He’s a monster, don’t let him wheedle you.” And she _undulates_ to her feet like some kind of sexy snake, slinking away to slide into someone’s lap across the room and Carver just … what?

Kinnis is looking at him, mouth wide and, oh, interested? Is that what this is? “Mmmm. Fox. I imagine you do _very_ well at the Pearl. Tell me all about it.” And then he glances over his shoulder. “I’d kill for a drink. Anyone?” Someone passes him a bottle and he settles back, watching Carver with clear green eyes that … fuck, he’s so _pretty_ , the way he puts his mouth around the bottle and just _sucks_ the booze down. Was there tongue in there? Carver’s pretty sure there was tongue, flickering out to lick the lip of the bottle and…

Kinnis grins, hands the bottle up, and Carver takes it because, well, of course he does. 

“So, tell me. What _do_ you do?”

Carver leans in, and maybe he’s a little drunk. “Dunno what you wanna hear,” he says, and Kinnis’ mouth broadens into a lovely smile.

“Whatever you want to tell me … Fox.”

Carver shivers. Fuck, he’s good, the elf is _good_ , so much better at all this than Carver could ever be, but this is a challenge and Carver’s no good at backing down from it, especially no good at backing down from green eyes and smooth silky hair that flows across the elf’s shoulders like black ink. 

“I suck a mean cock,” Carver says, and Kinnis breaks into laughter, but he drops a hand to Carver’s knee, squeezing a little before lifting that hand to brush over his own mouth and grinning.

“ _Do_ you, now?” His mouth, fuck, that mouth is so red and so _wet_ , and Carver can’t quite… “Bet you fuck hard too, when you’re asked.”

Carver feels giddy, maybe from booze and maybe because Kinnis is so … in any case, all he says is, “No-one ever asks for that. I mean … ladies, sometimes, seem to want it, but … mostly no.”

“Ohhh,” and Kinnis flashes him a grin that’s … fuck, it’s something, and Carver wishes he could do that, could make someone _feel_ that way, so he tries his best to copy it; Kinnis doesn’t laugh, and that’s good at least. “Mmmm. Well, then.” Kinnis takes a pull from his bottle, swipes a wrist over his mouth, and then he leans up to put his lips against Carver’s ear. “Such a pity.”

And that’s when Bethany kicks him again, really sodding hard right in the ball of his ankle. “Wah!” and he glances up to see Bethany frowning, as though he’s done something wrong and he hasn’t, has he? “Hey,” he tries, “I gotta,” but he doesn’t know how to end the sentence, not when Bethany’s glaring at him and Kinnis is just _grinning_. Carver clears his throat, counts to five, and says, “This is my sister.”

“And does your sister suck cock too?” Kinnis asks, and his tone is teasing but the red that floods Bethany’s face makes Carver instantly angry.

“No, she bloody doesn’t,” he snaps.

Shockingly, though, Bethany flashes him a furious look, mouth thinning down practically to nothing. “‘She’ can answer for herself, thank-you.”

Kinnis looks delighted. “Do you, then, or not?”

“I don’t expect you’ll ever find out,” Bethany says, icily prim, but it only makes Kinnis laugh.

“You say that now, lovely, but,” and reaches across Carver to take her hand, lifting her fingertips to his mouth, “trust me when I tell you I’m very _very_ good at what I do.”

He smiles up at her, all lazy-eyed, and Carver watches in horror as Bethany blinks, blushes even darker, and _does not take back her hand_. “Oh. Um.”

“Oh, fuck no. You’re not seducing my sister in my sodding _lap_!”

Kinnis laughs, twists his fingers in Bethany’s hand, and grins. “I wouldn’t _dare_.”

Carver breathes out through his nose. “Yeah, I reckon you’d dare a whole fucking lot, actually.”

The elf smiles, pats Carver’s leg, and leans back into the bed of dirty linen. “I do _try_.” His smile turns … different. Not so sexy, more sort of regular, just a bloke saying a thing to another bloke. “Is the Pearl treating you all right? How do you like it there?”

So Carver tells him; it’s okay, no-one asks him to do anything he doesn’t want, the bouncer is pretty fucking reasonable, the sheets are clean. Good, he says, and he thinks, _Could be a lot worse_ , but he doesn’t say it.

“I’m thinking,” Kinnis says, leaning in close for this, but not the kind of close he did before, “of jumping ship, you see. Maybe … you could tell your Madam? I’m _good_ ,” he says, and there, the sexy smile is back, and then Kinnis sucks a finger in a way that makes Carver think yeah, fucking _yeah_ , but then Kinnis says, “I can show you, if you like. If you want to tell your Madam that I’m worth it.”

Carver knows what this is. A freebie, thrown out in the hope of more, and he shrugs his shoulders because he doesn’t want that, even though it’s … well, it’s normal. “Don’t need,” he says, low and quiet. “You’re good, I reckon. I’ll tell Sanga that, and, you know. Maybe.”

Kinnis looks vaguely disappointed, but then he slithers into Carver’s lap just far enough to catch Bethany’s hand again. “Mmm, lovely lady. How _did_ you end up with such a prudish brother? He spreads his thighs but he doesn’t want to talk about it and it’s so _precious_.”

Carver opens his mouth to protest but Bethany gives him such a Look that he shuts up.

She turns the Look on Kinnis, and there's something in it that's all ... Carver's not sure. "My brother was taught manners. Even though he doesn't show them all that often."

"Hey!"

Kinnis grins. "A whore with manners. What an oddity."

"Get _off_ ," Carver grumbles, giving the bloke a shove, and Kinnis just leans into him and ... well, it would be rude to push him onto the floor, but Carver really wants to. "Nothing wrong with manners."

"I prefer charm." His smile can only be described as sultry. "And so do my clients."

Bethany laughs, and Carver hides his stupid pink face behind a bottle, and fine, if this is what they want to do then _fine_ , he'll play. 

They rattle on into the very early hours, and Bethany starts to yawn, but it's only when Kinnis invites the both of them up to his room for no very good reason that Carver realises nearly everyone else has turned in. And, horrifyingly, what that's actually an invitation for.

"None of that. I did say Bethy's my _sister_ , didn't I?"

"You said," and Kinnis grins some more. "People say all sorts of things, in my experience. But, if you insist," and he makes a complicated flourish with one hand, "don't let me keep you."

"Later, then."

They stagger home, Carver putting a protective arm around his twin whenever they see a guardsman or, well, anyone.

"Hey. That was okay, wasn't it?"

Bethany nods, putting a lot of thought into her steps and clinging to him in a way that, well. It's his Bethy, under his arm, where she's supposed to be. "You have nice friends. I'm glad."

They aren't all his friends, and they aren't all nice, but still.

"That _Kinnis_ ," and she blunders up against him, fingers latched in his belt, but keeps walking. "Would you have gone up with him? If I hadn't been there, I mean."

Would he have? Probably. "Does it matter?"

"I wouldn't mind, you know. If you had a lover." They're on the steps of the tenement now, and she pauses to look up at him. "Someone to be kind to you. I thought, maybe, with Rinian?"

His chest tightens, and he tries his best to shrug it off. "Rin's gone, now. Off playing sailors." He doesn't want her to look at him too closely, so he shoves her toward the stairs. "Wasn't anything, really." Though, he does wish.

She lets it go, lets them into their room, and puts a kettle over the cold hearth. He doesn't know why she bothers, when she's only going to magic the water hot. Which she does. And then she makes up a pot of tea. "I thought it might be something. You liked him so."

Carver had. He doesn't want to talk about it. "It was nothing. Hey," he catches her hand, holds it tight. "Don't need anything tying us down, now. Just need the money for Kirkwall."

"We don't have to go to Kirkwall, you know." She puts out two cups on the table, and looks in the pot to see if the tea's brewed. He _knows_ she's avoiding his eye but he doesn't push it. "We could go anywhere. Away from the Blight. It doesn't matter."

"I'll go where you go," he tells her, and he means it. Wherever she wants.

"I know, but ... is there anywhere you'd like to go?" She pours the tea, pats him on the arm, and sits down. Maker, she looks tired. They've been up late, so he supposes it's okay, but still. "You always liked the sound of the Anderfels, when we were little."

"Only 'cos I wanted to be a Grey Warden." And now he's seen Darkspawn up close it doesn't seem so appealing. "I don't care. Whatever you want, Beth. I'll follow you wherever."

She nods, swirling tea in her cup. "I still want to go to Kirkwall. Mother said, and ... Uncle Gamlen says he can't help us, but I'd like to meet him. He's all the family we have left."

"We'll find work, wherever we go." He doesn't mean it to hurt her but the look on her face when it comes up makes it clear she's upset by it.

"I'll make sure you don't have to," she says, firm and certain, and so much like Marian that it makes Carver's heart clench.

They drink their tea. The next day, Carver tells Sanga that there's a whore at the Fancy Bit who'd like to come over, and Sanga seems pleased by it. It's only a matter of days before Kinnis is wooing sailors and guards in the common room, and that's good, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing this, obviously. More to come. (Good gracious, we haven't seen hide nor hair of Cullen, yet!)


	7. Chapter 7

He’s halfway through his shift, gritty in the summer heat gusting in through the open casements (they pull thin screens over them for privacy but the idea is to let in the breeze, for all that does if the breezes are hot) when Sanga gestures for him, her fingers sharp and demanding.

"Got a challenge for you, Fox."

Carver sets down his tray of glassware and empty bottles, and cocks his head at her. "Yeah? What's it pay, then?"

She smirks a whore-smirk, but it's a whore-question. "Well, they're betting on it, out the back. Could make some silver if you win."

It's interesting, but too vague. "If I win what?"

“In the corner. The one with the chin-scruff."

Carver looks. The bloke looks shy, not quite staring about him but still eyeing the other patrons from behind his cup. He's straw-haired, neatly turned out but not flashy, in the drab dress of a working man stretched over the shoulders of a warrior. Not bad.

“Wouldn’t call that a scruff,” Carver says, feigning consideration. “Too neat. Too damn prim.” And he's been at this long enough to know to ask, "What's wrong with him?"

"He's been in the last three nights, taken a girl out back each time, but he hasn't got his money's worth." She doesn't have to explain; Carver knows what that means. "He hasn't said, but I've got a feeling he might like a lad only he don't have nerve enough to ask. Or, maybe, he's just limp all round. So, like I said. A challenge."

Carver thinks about it. "If he wanted a bloke, why not Kinnis?"

Sanga rolls her eyes. "Oh, yeah? And you'll listen to the melodrama if Princess can't get spend out of him?" She makes a sour face. "I'd have sent Rinian. He had a way with first-timers. Bloody ship-jumping sod."

Huh. Well, if Rinian could do it. "All right. Gimme a minute." He goes out back, catches Katti's arm, and asks, "Odds on me with the tricky bloke?"

She snorts. "Really? How much do you want to bet?"

"Ten silver?"

She shakes her head. "Go big or go home, Fox."

"Half a sov, then."

"Oooh, la-di-dah." She makes a prissy curtsey. "Well, you'll get four to one on that."

He grins. "Sign me up," and he runs a hand through his hair before taking a breath, letting it go, and sauntering back out front to grab a bottle of cider.

Doing this used to make him feel sick, just nerves really because it used to be humiliating to be told 'no', but now he doesn’t care so much. ‘No’ doesn’t mean ‘not ever’, and anyway it’s not personal. People just have types, and he isn’t everyone’s.

So he’s not nervous, exactly, when he leans on the back of a chair and clears his throat. Just on point, that’s all. “Hey. What are you drinking?”

The bloke, (slicked-back gingery blond, neat bit of not-scruff around the mouth, and, oh hello, hazel eyes?) startles beautifully, and then comes over intensely red in hot splotches along his cheekbones and down his neck. “I, uh … I believe it is small-ale, ser.”

Carver snorts, both at the small-ale and the ‘ser’. “Try this,” and he offers up the cider. “S’nice. Cold, too.” Unlike the ale.

The blushing is cute. And it keeps happening. “I could not possibly...”

“Oh? It’s not spiked, if you’re wondering.” Carver tilts the bottle up and takes a long swallow. It really is cold, a blessing in this heat, and he does like the cider, but that isn’t the point here. He offers up the bottle again, catching the stranger’s eye and grinning at him. “Go on. Apples and lemons. You might like it.”

This time Carver can see his hesitation, so he leans over the back of the chair to push the bottle up against the other man’s knuckles; he resists for a moment and then relents, fingers skittering nervously against Carver’s hand.

“There you go.” Carver watches him take a sip, notes his pleased surprise, can’t help but smile. This bloke is skittish as fuck, like he’s going to bolt, or stubbornly sit here all night on his own. Yeah, no. That won’t play. “So, I figure there might be two reasons you're sittin' here, all alone. Either you're waiting for someone specific or you haven't yet made up your mind. Which is it?”

The man looks so embarrassed. Carver feels a pang of sympathy; he hates it when he's the one off-balance. Poor bastard. "I ... am not waiting for anyone.” He punishes his lip between his teeth, not meeting Carver’s eye. “Forgive me, this is not something I am used to,” he finishes quietly.

“Yeah. Me neither, once upon a time.” Carver cocks his head, watching. Maker, he’s pretty, though. Anxious and sort of … wounded. Carver kinda likes wounded. Makes him look soft, or vulnerable, maybe.

 _Because you’re so tough, little brother_. Carver takes a breath, ignores the thought and the voice, and holds out a hand.

“So. Do you? Want to come back with me, I mean? Or are you still looking?” _Come on_ , he thinks, _you’re pretty and shy and I can see muscles under that shirt, come on, come on._

The fellow hesitates again, but then it is as though he makes a decision and it is _made_ , no turning back; he stands, takes Carver’s outstretched hand, and nods. “Yes. I shall. If that is ... if you don’t mind.”

Carver grins, tugging him toward the back rooms. “I don’t mind. Don’t mind t'all.”

Sanga's still watching the door; she extends an arm, gracefully waving them down the hall. “Last on the left,” she says, winking, and Carver has to swallow a laugh because that’s Kinnis’ favourite room, and Kinnis is out front in the lap of an Orlesian smuggler and is probably going to want the room in a bit. But. He grins. _Fuck Kinnis_.

On the threshold Carver’s guest seems to lose heart, hovering in the entryway.

“What?” Carver backs into the room, cocking his head the way some people seem to like. “Cold feet?”

“No, it is,” and he takes a deep breath, obviously steeling himself. “Nothing.”

Carver lets him go, because he’s either coming in or not, and sprawls on end of the bed. This room's window is also open and also screened; it’s cooler back here, and the room is full of some citrusy candle smell that is probably something Kinnis likes and Carver thinks he might like too. There’s not much here beyond the bed, the discreet cabinet full of necessaries, but it’s all draped in colourful cloth and cushions with fringy things to make it seem nicer and exotic. The good rooms are all like that; Sanga has said that most of what they sell at the Pearl is sex, but for some guests it’s an experience, and experiences ought to be suitably fancy.

That isn’t quite what Carver sells. An experience, sure, but nothing fancy. That’s the whole point.

“You coming? Or just going?” he says, and his guest startles again. Huh. Maybe even more skittish than he’d thought. He leans forward, hands out, and he says, “Come on.” But the fellow just stands there, awkward and a little wretched, and Carver thinks he needs a bit more encouragement. “Don’t you wanna?”

“I do not even know your name, ser.”

It’s sort of sweet, and Carver can’t help himself. “Carver. Fox.” He shakes his head; this is stupid. “Just Fox. You?”

“... just Cullen.”

“All right then, Cullen?” 

Cullen looks away. His smile is rueful and a little pained, and Carver kinda likes it. “I am ... it is nothing.” 

"Don't look like nothing. Looks pretty good from here, though." Carver gets up, twists an armchair around to face the bed and pulls the spindly side-table over. "Here," and he takes the man's cider from his hand, puts it down on the table with a thunk, and gestures. "Sit with me. Let's talk." 

The bloke, predictably now, hesitates again but he crosses the room and takes the chair, eyeing Carver with obvious nervousness. Carver kneels down on the floor at his feet, letting his knees splay open. It's tight in these pants, but the way his guest runs his gaze up Carver's inseam is encouraging.

"So. Cullen." Carver puts a hand on Cullen's ankle, loosely for now, and offers him a grin. "You wanna tell me what you're here for?"

Cullen looks torn, his eyes skittering to one side. "It is ... very foolish."

"Nah, it ain't. Trust me." 

It doesn't look as though he's been very convincing, though. "I fear I cannot purchase what I want."

"Try me." He squeezes, thumb pressing into the leather of the man's boot. "Bet you I've heard worse."

Cullen sighs, closing his eyes. He doesn't open them when he speaks, just hides himself behind his lids and it's sort of pathetic but sort of sweet, really. "I would ... if I could, I would that you wanted me."

Huh. Carver runs his hand up the man's calf, fingers curling around his knee. "You reckon I don't?"

Cullen shakes his head, eyes wrenched shut. "Not for my coin, but for myself ... so you see, by its nature, I cannot purchase that."

"You reckon I didn't choose you?" It's not quite a lie, at least no more of a lie than the lies he tells every night with his body. This is a _brothel_ , after all. Not like he ever really wants any of it. "I saw you there, liked the look of you. Hoped you'd say yes. Rather be here with you than anyone else out there."

That makes his eyes open up, startled. "I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you like." Carver shrugs, rubbing circles into Cullen's thigh. It's having _some_ sort of effect; Cullen shudders, not a revulsion-shudder but the good kind, and Carver takes heart from that, hooks his free hand under one of Cullen's, feeling him out. Callouses, ones he knows. "You're a swordsman?"

Cullen nods, eyes fixed on Carver's neck where his shirt's open. Good. That's good. "I am."

"You're not a soldier, though," Carver says, warming to this. He knows soldiers, they're rough and dirty and foul-mouthed, just like sailors, and this guy? "You talk too fancy for that. Knight, then?"

Cullen nods, but this time he says nothing, just watching.

Carver comes up on his knees, slides his hand up Cullen's thigh to finger the folds of his trousers where they bunch at the hip. "Yeah? _Ser_ Cullen." He licks his lips, a little nervous himself because the talking part of this has never been his strength. But it's not like he's never done it before. "You wanna play a game, Ser Cullen?"

The man breathes in, and yeah, he _does_ want, Carver can feel it. But still-- "You will have to teach me the rules, ser."

 _Ser_. Maker, that feels so weird. Carver manages somehow not to snort at it. "Rules are: you're Ser Cullen, a brave knight just passing through some shitty town on your way to some noble bloody quest. You've taken a room in a tavern. I'm just some farmboy serving nights to make a bit of coin, but you saw me in the common room and I saw you lookin', and when you asked me to carry your things I followed you in. And you've tipped me, and I should go. But I don't wanna go. Not if you want me to stay."

Cullen inhales, shifting in his seat, and his gaze has gone avid in a way Carver recognises. That's better. They're getting somewhere.

"Do you?" Carver pulls Cullen's hand down, splaying Cullen's fingers against his chest. Cullen makes a weak sound, knotting his hand in Carver's shirt. "Want me to stay, ser knight?"

The breath that comes out of him is ragged; his grip on Carver's shirt tightens, pulling him in. Carver goes with it, both hands firm on Cullen's hips, but Cullen sighs, looking up with eyes that are so _sad_ \-- no, not sad, but full of something Carver thinks he might understand. "You cannot possibly want _me_."

“You want proof?” Carver tugs Cullen’s hand down to press the palm against his crotch because that’s where all his evidence is. “Yeah, I want you.” He likes the way Cullen shudders, likes his sharp gasp, likes how that hand curls around the bulge in Carver's pants. Not completely hard yet, but firm enough for show. Cullen licks his lips, blinking fast, and then his other hand comes up to clutch Carver's shoulder.

"Very well. If you will permit me."

 _You don't have to ask when you're paying for it,_ Carver thinks, but then he rethinks it when Cullen leans in, eyes closed tight, and Carver realises he wants a kiss.

All right. Just this once won't hurt. And he smells good, of soap and clean linen, so Carver meets him halfway, opens his mouth to let him in, and Cullen is so sweet about it, so very careful that Carver arches his back, wraps an arm around Cullen's shoulders, holds himself up, coming under to let himself be kissed.

Cullen tastes of cider, no surprise, but also sharp and tangy behind it, of something Carver recognises but can't name, something familiar and dangerous. Maker, his mouth is so _soft_ , so welcoming, and it's been such a long time since Rinian left that Carver really likes being kissed, even though he knows damn well it's not something he should be doing. Fuck, though, it goes right to his cock, and he can feel himself swell under the pressure of the hand still cupping him right where he left it, and he wants to moan so he does.

He gets one back, a deep sound in Cullen's throat, and when Carver tugs Cullen comes down onto the floor, one knee between Carver's thighs, but there he stops. He pulls away; Carver follows, leaning up to chase another kiss, but the man pulls further back, and Carver thinks, _It doesn't have to be this hard. Stop making it hard._

He settles his shoulders against the edge of the bed, eyeing Cullen up because, well, if he's wasting his time ... But Cullen has a hand on Carver's cock, the other smoothing down the front of his shirt, fingers skittering around the ties, and his expression isn't dissatisfied, just intent, so Carver relaxes, canting his hips up to shove himself firmly into Cullen's palm. "All right?"

"Hm?" Cullen seems distracted, too focussed on the hand covering Carver's crotch, and the thumb he's trailing along the ridges of muscle he's finding through Carver's shirt. Okay, that's ... that's okay. 

Carver reaches down to pull his shirt up and off over his head. "Good?" Cullen's just _staring_ at him now, hand hovering above his skin. Carver grabs it and pulls it flat against his belly. "That's good, right?"

Cullen draws in a breath, licks his lips, and his eyes flicker up. "Yes," he says, weak and soft, and Carver thinks, _Why's no-one tumbling you, you sweet-eyed fucker?_ Because he would, Maker help him, if this man had asked in a bar or the barracks, he _so would_. Just look at him.

"Fuuuck," Carver breathes, and it's okay to be like this, here in a room at the Pearl, he doesn't have to pretend he's anything except eager, and he is, right now, eager for this. Ugh, he really is. "Tell me. What you want. Or ... you just want me to work it out? Want me to do for you?"

He reaches for Cullen's junk, but Cullen jerks out of reach, arched over him in a way that really has to be hurting his back, but all he does is close his eyes, hand tightening on Carver's cock. "No, please. Let me ... I want to touch you. I ... please. Permit me to ... I would that you _liked_ it."

"I do like it, I _do_ ," and Carver fumbles with the laces on his trousers, freeing himself and yanking them far enough to then tug Cullen's palm down to meet him. The fingers go round, Cullen's eyes go round too, and Carver sighs because it does feel good, that skin against his skin. "Yeah, I like that. I like _you_. Do you like me?"

"Yes," Cullen breathes, and then his mouth is over Carver's, his tongue insistent, and Carver moans because that's his job and also ... also this is thrilling. Cullen's been so shy, but now he is bold, and his hand does not shake as he works Carver's cock, does not falter, jerking him with a sweet desperation that goes to Carver's head.

"Uh, yeah," and it's unprofessional to be so turned on by a customer, but he is, and it's good, and when Cullen shifts his grip Carver moans again, feels his balls tighten, and he catches Cullen's wrist to slow him down because he shouldn't finish first or at all, normally doesn't because normally people don't want that. "You'll make me come," he protests, and the burn in Cullen's eyes tells him better than words how much Cullen wants that.

"Please, let me please you," Cullen gasps, so Carver puts his hands to Cullen's jaw, draws him down for another kiss, and then he tips over, letting himself go to pieces, and it's _so good_ , fuck, it never feels this good.

Cullen whimpers, tearing his hand away to yank at his own laces; he frees himself, jerks himself a few times straddling Carver's thigh, and spends, messily, on Carver's belly, mouth still fixed on Carver's, still licking at him, still desperate. Carver holds him as he shudders and shakes and then goes weak, but even then Cullen has one arm braced against the edge of the bed, does not collapse on Carver like a deadweight, holds himself up like a gentleman. He huffs, puffs, catches his breath, and then he looks up at Carver like...

Shit. He's fucking _beautiful_. Carver doesn't know what to do, cramped up against the side of the bed, on the _floor_ still, and that's fucking unprofessional as _fuck_.

"Y-you liked that, right?"

Cullen gulps down a breath but he nods, and then he ducks his head to kiss Carver again. Carver lets him, still giddy, until Cullen seems to run out of nerve, pulling away with this awful shameful look on his face.

" _Hey_ , none of that," Carver chides, clean fingers pressing up under Cullen's jaw 'til he meets Carver's eye. "Nothin' to be like that about. You liked it; I liked it. Look how much we both liked it," he adds, gesturing at the evidence on his belly.

Cullen's blush is so fucking cute. "Ah ... I've made a mess of you."

"It'll wash off," Carver tells him, stretching and grinning. "So. Got what you wanted? There's still time. Wait a bit and we'll go again." Which he really doesn't need to say, but, shit. The ugly fuckers he normally has to deal with, demanding and rough and completely inconsiderate -- this is a treat by comparison. 

But to his disappointment Cullen shakes his head, draws away to tuck himself back into his trousers. "I am ... satisfied. Thank-you."

And the others _never_ say 'thank-you'. Carver sighs, clambers his feet, grabs a cloth from the stand and cleans himself up. "Maybe next time," he says, trying not to sound hopeful or like he's drumming up business. If Cullen comes again then, well, they'll see. Maybe he'll choose someone else. Maybe he won't. It's all good (though Carver thinks he'd _like_ to, wouldn't mind if Cullen stuck with him).

Cullen looks flustered, standing up and clearly at a loss for what to do now. Carver grabs the cider, offering it up with a grin.

"Here. Finish your drink, at least."

But Cullen shakes his head. "Thank-you, no. It is," and he hesitates, "not what I came for."

"Glad you did," Carver tells him, meaning it both ways. "Come, I mean."

That blush. Fuck, Carver could get used to that blush. "Ah. As am I." He stands there, awkward as fuck, until Carver takes a swig of the cider and coughs, pointedly.

"If you're not staying..."

"Then I should go." Cullen turns, and then turns back, one hand coming out as if to take Carver's, but stopping short. "Thank-you for your kindness. And ... the rest."

Carver can't help grinning. "Any time, ser knight." 

"Good night, Fox."

Carver hadn't expected him to remember, is honestly a little stunned by it, and when Cullen's gone he drops into the chair to finish Cullen's bottle, still light-headed with how easy that was, in the end. No tip, but maybe what he got instead was better.

Glory and Janaya are hovering in the hallway, and they drag him into the dressing room to giggle at him when he emerges. 

"If I'd known it was kisses he wanted," Glory snickers, prodding Carver in the chest, "I'd have given him _that_."

Janaya sighs, leaning on Carver's arm. "He was so _sweet_. You played him well, love, well done."

"Were you _watching_?" He's not horrified, or really all that surprised. He knows there are peepholes into all the rooms, sometimes for paying customers but mostly for bored staff. Everyone spies on everyone else, nothing's really private. Maker, even he went to perve on Kinnis the first night. Just to see what the elf could do, and fuck, it was a lot, honestly. Carver leers at them, though, because he can. "Get your bits wet, then?"

"Mmmm," and Glory leers right back. "Pretty wet, darl. Got anything left for a poor working girl?"

And he knows she's joking so he laughs. "Give a bloke a minute! I can't just fake it, you know. Gotta _deliver_."

He collects his winnings, endures the jibes, finishes up his shift and goes home. And if the memory of hazel eyes and firm fingers follows him into sleep, that's nobody's business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH this was the first chapter I wrote of this fic, but thn I went back to fill in the backstory and ... yeah, here we are.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn, just porn.

Bethany goes off with her bloody band of smugglers and Carver hates it _so much_. It makes him grumpy, no time for anyone, incapable of enduring the tedious business of hooking a customer, and Sanga despairs at him, shaking her head when he stubbornly ignores the flirtatious overtures of the beautiful Rivaini ship-captain who's taken up residence in their common room.

"There's money in that one," Sanga grumbles, and he rolls his eyes because he's Not In The Mood for this. "Don't turn down a good trick, lad. There's too many bad tricks you might have to take instead."

He scowls. "You said I didn't have to."

" _I'm_ not going to make you, but," and she frowns at him, "for the coin."

Because they all know why they're here. Still, Carver doesn't feel like it, and he still doesn't late in the evening when, out of nowhere, Sanga pulls him aside again.

"I know you said you're not entertaining guests tonight," she starts, and when he opens his mouth to grouse at her she holds up a hand to forestall him. "Still, he's asking for you, Fox, and I can't afford to lose the custom."

As if that's true. Still, he's curious. "Who?" Apart from the Bann and her friends, people don't really ask for Carver.

She glances over her shoulder and, oh, it's the guy. Cullen, standing in a corner with another fucking cup of probably-small-ale, not even looking up, and Carver sighs because ... okay. 

"Yeah. Yeah, all right. But just him, yeah?"

Sanga actually looks surprised, but then she smirks. "Bets are off, this time. Sure it's worth your while?"

"Just fucking send him through," Carver growls, and he stalks off to wash his hands and face (and his junk because, well, of course).

When he gets to the room, not one of their best this time, just one of the usual, Cullen is sitting on the end of the bed, looking forlorn and ... shit, he looks _low_. Carver takes a breath, puts on a good face, and grins at him.

"Hey. Back for more?"

Why must he blush so prettily? "I thought ... ah. You said I might come again?"

Now there's an opening. But Carver doesn't take advantage of it, just comes in, sits down on the bed beside him, and puts a hand on his knee. "Glad you did. Liked you pretty good last time." Though, who knows what he'll want now?

Cullen drops a hand over Carver's, and it's bolder than before, better, more what Carver's used to. "I have been thinking of you." He looks up, no blushes now, the thrust of his gaze disarmingly direct. "I have ... been able to think of little else."

It's been a week, maybe -- Carver loses track these days. "I thought about you too." He doesn't admit that he's definitely jerked off thinking about Cullen, about his mouth and his hands and his sodding wrists, and how sweetly he moaned when he came. "So. What d'you want of me this time?"

"If I might," Cullen starts, but then he stops, wavering. _Can't have that_. Carver tips his hand up to lace their fingers together, squeezing in encouragement. Cullen takes a breath, clearly steeling himself. "May I kiss you?"

Carver shouldn't, but he wants to. But, he should say-- "You know you can't buy them. Kisses, I mean. That's not what you're paying for."

Cullen looks a little upset. "Oh. I'm sorry. I did not mean to presume."

"No, you don't--" It's so stupid. Carver shakes his head. "You're paying for the _rest of it_ , I meant. But I'm only kissing you because I like you." Cullen's eyes fix on him, and he looks so... "I like kissing you. So yeah, you can, but just so you know."

Cullen pauses, and then turns to put a hand beneath Carver's jaw, holding him still, and he leans in. Ah, it's just as good as Carver remembered, delicate, tentative, too sweet for kissing a whore. He won't refuse it, though, wants it, leans into Cullen because he _does_ want it, likes this a whole lot more than anything else in his life right now.

The kiss goes deep, Cullen finding Carver's tongue. It's intimate, in a way that's more intimate than a straight-up tumble, and Carver gets why it's a bad idea but also ... he can't deny that he likes this.

Eventually Cullen pulls away, flushed and twitchy, and Carver's twitchy enough himself to slide down onto the floor between Cullen's feet, pushing his knees apart to come up between them. "Hey. Want me to suck you?"

Cullen bites his lip. "I would not have you do any thing you do not like yourself," he says, which is so not a 'no' that Carver has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

"What if I told you I liked it? The thought of you in my mouth." And he _has_ thought of this, of Cullen like this, has regretted that they didn't the first time. "I'd like it, a whole fucking lot."

"Then I would not deny you," Cullen says, bold again, and Carver takes that for a 'go ahead', hands already cupping Cullen in his pants, smoothing over the ready bulge there. Cullen makes a noise -- it's so _sweet_ \-- and Carver ducks his head to mouth at the cloth over Cullen's cock. Yeah, he wants this, and Cullen wants this too, so it's fine. Carver feels weirdly good about it, like it's okay if he doesn't want, but he does want, so he _does_ , carefully untying Cullen's trousers and pulling them down to expose him.

He's got a good cock, firm and smooth, thick in the right way and long enough that Carver twitches a little more because how might it feel to be fucked by this? Would Cullen be gentle or rough? Smooth and slow or quick and hard? Any way, Carver thinks he'd like to know.

But for now all he does is lick at it, listening to the hitch and shatter of Cullen's breath, ducks under to tongue his balls, enjoying how it makes him groan. He rubs his own crotch, hard as a fist now, which is unusual enough to make him hesitate. Fuck, what's wrong with him? He tries not to think about it, bows his head, takes Cullen into his mouth. He tastes good, clean and fresh, and Carver imagines Cullen washing himself for this, imagines Cullen doing that for _him_ , and he moans around the generous mouthful that weighs so heavy on his tongue.

Cullen jerks but does not fuck into Carver's mouth, holds himself still with an effort of will, it seems, but Carver wants none of that. He's not even trying to get Cullen off quickly, like normal, instead wants to enjoy him, so he slows down, lipping at him carefully, taking him deep as he can for only a stroke before coming up to mouth him again.

He bows up, letting Cullen free, and licks his lip as he looks up to find Cullen staring at him. Well, that's _good_. He _should_ look, when Carver's doing his best to satisfy him.

"Hey," he says, though, because there's more they can do, more he's happy to do. "Take your trousers off. Go up on the bed."

The speed with which Cullen removes his shirt, his boots, and his trousers, is gratifying, and Carver stands back long enough to get his own off, admiring the muscles Cullen's been hiding all the while. Maker, he's fit. The body of a warrior, though largely free of scars, and Carver leans over him, naked unto Cullen as Cullen is naked unto him and ... well, that's fucking _poetic_ , and Carver knows better, _should_ know better but ...

Carver fits himself over Cullen, likes the way Cullen's hands come up to caress his hips, and Carver spreads his legs, straddling Cullen. But, no, that's not right. "You want me under you?"

"Yes," Cullen admits, so Carver shifts, pulls Cullen (naked and glorious) over him. Fuck, he's handsome, head to toes, and Carver licks his lips, wanting in a way ... he shouldn't want. He smooths his hands down the silky length of Cullen's back, pulls Cullen up against him, hands cupped around Cullen's arse where the red-gold hair is fine and downy.

"You wanna go back in my mouth?"

Cullen nods, and leans down to press his mouth to Carver's. And _yes_ but also no, that wasn't what Carver meant, so he urges Cullen up, tugging until Cullen gets it, comes up, straddles Carver's chest the way he wanted. Wants. Definitely wants, and Carver curls up to take Cullen again in his mouth.

Ah, yeah, that's just right. Cullen braces a hand against the wall above, and holds still while Carver mouths him, lets Carver take him in, and then he shudders while Carver sucks him down. Maker, how good he feels against Carver's tongue, in the back of his throat, and how Cullen shakes, so reluctant to take advantage of this.

Carver sees it, doesn't like it. He pulls away to say, "No, you can, if you want," and he drags one of Cullen's hands down to the back of his head, tries to encourage him. "Fuck my mouth, come on."

"I ... cannot," Cullen gasps, but his eyes are dark, his mouth red, and Carver thinks he doesn't really mean it.

"No, _please_ ," Carver moans, and he takes Cullen back in, cupping his hands around the curve of Cullen's arse and pulling him up flush. Cullen makes such a high, wild noise, and then--

Well, _then_.

Cullen thrusts; Carver loves it, curls up best he can to take it, and the feel of Cullen in his mouth, the way Cullen rocks into him, fuck, yes, _yes_. Cullen _takes_ him, exactly how he wants, and Carver can't help his whimpering, how his cock leaps up, how, how...

And then Cullen _stops_ , and it's maddening. Carver frees himself to beg, (beg? but that's what he does) " _Please!_ "

But Cullen is relentless. "Let me ... for you, also. _Please_."

So Carver catches the hand gone loose near his cock, drags it down behind Cullen's back to wrap those fingers around him. Cullen shifts his weight, settling back on Carver's chest, cock still out and proud, and _strokes_ him; Carver makes a sound that ... that isn't the kind of sound a whore ought to make, too fucking real, and curls up to find him again. Ah, Cullen in his mouth, Cullen wrapped around his cock, Cullen over him, so fucking beautiful, and when Cullen drives down Carver accepts him, goes loose for him, just wants him.

It doesn't take long, only a half-hundred heartbeats, and then Cullen groans, spills, and Carver swallows it because ... he wants. This time. But then Cullen twists, looking over his shoulder, his hand so demanding on Carver's cock, and Carver knows what he wants so Carver gives it up, couldn't really do anything but, not when Cullen, Cullen ... _Cullen_...

He breaks, loose and wretched, tries to catch his breath, comes back to himself, mouth pressed against the inside of Cullen's thigh, tips his head up to met Cullen's downward dip and ... more kisses, none of them unwelcome, all of them perfect. He has the taste of Cullen in his mouth, and Cullen _doesn't mind_ , seems to like it, kissing and kissing as he does.

"Ah, Maker," Carver gasps, when he finds breath enough. "Fuck, you're good. Oh--" He presses his messy mouth to Cullen's cheek, and Cullen makes a sound almost like he's laughing. "Fuck _yeah_."

"Fox," Cullen says, weak and helpless, and Carver ... it's too much, too good, too close to something _real_. Cullen spreads out over him, tangling their legs together, one hand caught in Carver's hair and it's ... oh, Maker, how hard it is to pull away.

"Liked that?" Carver swallows, Cullen still thick on his tongue, the scent of him (clean, so fucking clean) in his nose, the sight of him wide-eyed and glorious making Carver twitchy for it. "You want more of that, then?"

"Yes," Cullen says, frank and open, and Carver shivers because this? This is _good_. 

"Okay. Gimme a minute," he begs, but Cullen just shakes his head, looking _shy_ again, and fuck no, how could he, when he has only just kissed himself from Carver's mouth?

"Another time," Cullen says, curling a hand around Carver's and lifting it to his lips. He kisses Carver's knuckles; it is so simple, but Carver shudders. "If I may see you again?"

"Sure. Any time. No, I mean it," he insists, seeing Cullen's hesitance. " _Any_ time. If you want me, I'm yours."

Cullen smiles, ducks his head, kisses Carver on the mouth and ... Carver doesn't know. He shouldn't, but he can feel himself doing it, can feel the well of it in his chest.

He won't. He's fine. Cullen pulls back, and then he sits up to find his pants, his trousers, his shirt. Carver watches him, tries to tamp all of this back down, finds it really fucking hard when Cullen is so ... he's so _nice_. And Carver wants--

"Hey," he says, not sure how his voice got so soft. "You know, I like you. A lot."

Cullen's smile is embarrassed. "Ah," he says, and Carver doesn't know what that means, but he knows what _he_ means, so he goes ahead and says it.

"No, I meant .... I do. I thought maybe you'd like to know."

"I'm glad of it. I will come again, if you're, uh. Willing."

"Definitely," Carver tells him, and if there's a part of him that says, _Don't_ then there's a much louder part of him that says, _Definitely do._

Cullen goes, and Carver rolls onto his belly on the bed, closes his eyes, and thinks, _Okay. This is okay._ Everything's fine.

When Bethany comes home, Carver is too excited to hear about how nearly she was stabbed to tell her about anything, and even if he weren't he probably wouldn't tell her anyway.


End file.
